String Theory

Chapter 3

Peter didn't expect this much of a crowd.

In fact, he didn't expect to see... anyone, really. After Orthus's continuous announcements to be prepared for the dangers of the streets, Peter had expected apocalyptic scenery— the city in disarray, buildings dilapidated or burnt, people littering the streets looking for food. He'd armed himself with a few of the more subtle weapons from the lab, and taken one of the cars in the garage to get to the nearest Orthus memory clinic.

It's exactly what Galahad told him not to do, but honestly, with the constant panic sitting in his stomach, Peter didn't feel like he had another choice. When he woke up, his head was aching; he'd cut it open in his fall, and a bit of blood had pooled and dried around his head. On top of that, Karen had informed him that there were absolutely no files on Tony Stark; it was as if he simply didn't exist. The injury combined with the persistent memory loss was enough to convince him that a memory clinic was the best option.

So here he is, earbuds in, walking down the crowded sidewalk, peering around at the bustling city. If anything, it seems normal. Jets are taking off from JFK airport, taxis are honking at the traffic, and tinny music blasts from each store he walks by. The morning sun is dappling the high-rise buildings in warmth, and the masses of people seem unbothered by what should be considered a world-end scenario. A woman brushes past Peter, arms full of Gucci-branded shopping bags. A man tosses crumbs to the pigeons on the street. Nobody cares, Peter thinks, eyes darting between the people around him. None of these people even care what happened, do they?

When he gets to the memory clinic, there's a line out the door. He takes his spot at the end of the line and waits, hands shoved in his pockets, tapping his fingers to the music pouring through his earbuds. There's no chaos — not like he expected. Everybody in line is silent, and somber. Not many people come out. The few that do have their arms loaded with plastic bags full of supplies and pamphlets. Some look happy, relieved. Others are quiet.

The fear building in Peter's throat is enough to push him to the edge of an anxiety attack, so he clicks his music a little louder, and traces a few breathing squares on his leg, as Karen had instructed. Despite the increased volume of the soft pop pouring from his earbuds, Peter can still hear the door slam open, and he looks up. A man bursts out of the clinic, hands raised in the air, staggering towards the curb. He stumbles on the way there, wild eyes darting around at the crowd gathered. Peter's eyes go round, and he tugs out an earbud, watching.

"It's fake," the man pants. A little bit of bloody mucus flecks from his mouth when he speaks, and dribbles down his beard. "It's all fake. This is a scam!"

The crowd is staring at him in bewilderment. The man's voice pitches up to a shout. "You're going to die in there, I'm telling you! It's a trap— it's a trap. They want your minds! They kill yourminds, idiots! Go home! Leave while you can! "

As he shouts, a murmur of concern ripples through the crowd. His hands are covered in angry, deep scoring marks; he's scratched his hands raw, right through the skin. Blood drips from his fingers. The man's getting closer to the busy street, and Peter takes a step forward, raising a hand. "Sir— sir, please don't— the street. You're gonna step into the street."

The man fixes his gaze on Peter, and his expression melts to horrified sympathy.

"You," he breathes, stretching a hand out towards Peter. "You were one of them. You're one of the saviors."

"Uh," Peter says. His eyebrows shoot up, and he stammers. "I, uh. I don't think so, man, I'm just— look, don't get close to the curb, okay? You're gonna fall."

Peter's fingers begin to tingle, and when he clenches his fists, the hair on his arms stands on end. A few Orthus guards jog out of the building, approaching the standoff. They're clad in black and grey, and armed with stun guns. "Stop where you are," says one of them. "Your treatment is incomplete, and you're disoriented. Come with us."